The quay was reached by a straight road of about half a mile, which turned out of the main road to Frattenbury, and ended abruptly on the quay itself. As one approached by this road one passed a few cottages on either side, while, just before one came to the quay itself, there was a good-sized house on the right, and the “Mariner’s Arms” on the left. The seaward wall of the little inn was washed at the base at spring tides, and the windows looked out over the estuary. On the right-hand side of the quay, screened by the buildings on it, was an anchorage for vessels of small draught at low tide. A couple of little yachts were riding here, while, drawn up on the shore, were two or three flat-bottomed light canoes and some small boats. Most of these belonged to the “Mariner’s Arms,” and were for hire, Marsh Quay being quite a little resort at high tide in summer, when Frattenbury people came out to fish, or to sail in the estuary. On the shore immediately opposite was a wood, coming right down to the water’s edge, already turning golden yellow with autumn tints. Above the trees of this wood, a few hundred yards inland, could be seen the upper part of a house to which a boat, moored to the tiny jetty opposite, evidently belonged. At low tide the estuary was a wide expanse of black mud, except for a narrow channel winding in the middle, and the little pool beside the quay, which formed the anchorage. The tide from the Channel outside came in with a strong current which rushed back at the turn. Boating was not particularly safe, and even if one were sailing a light draught yacht, one had to know the shallows well, while heavier vessels coming up or going down with the tide had to stick to the mid-channel, to avoid running on the mud. The _Lucy_ was moored at the end of the quay, her bows pointing southward. It was almost high tide, still coming in, with only the vestige of a breeze from the south-west. As Tom Gale gazed vacantly over the sparkling waters, a speck of white appeared, coming into view round the bend. His seaman’s interest was aroused. Slowly he stretched himself into an upright position, and shaded his eyes with his hand. Presently he muttered to himself: “’Tain’t the first time he’s come up. Knows his way about, or he wouldn’t ha’ steered off the point there.” The speck of white grew more distinct, evolving into the mainsail, foresail, and jib of a small, cutter-rigged yacht. She was making little more than tide-way, her sails every now and then flapping as the breeze dropped. Tom Gale took a look round. The water was flowing by more slowly, the floating bits of seaweed hardly moving now. “Reckon he can’t do it,” he said. “There ’ent wind enough to bring him up against this tide and it’s almost on the ebb now.” Even as he spoke, the foresail came down with a run, followed by the jib. Then the mainsail slowly descended.